


Dead and Rested

by katasstropheee



Category: Fargo (2014)
Genre: Future Fic, Gen, Mild Gore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-28
Updated: 2014-05-28
Packaged: 2018-01-26 21:32:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,580
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1703276
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/katasstropheee/pseuds/katasstropheee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While one man finds death, another finds release.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dead and Rested

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers for the series Fargo, for episodes 6-7
> 
>  
> 
> So I wrote this on a whim, while I was inspired by the events that had occurred during "Who Shaves The Barber?" This is also my first attempt at a published story on this site, ever. So feel free to add your opinions and advice to the comments and do whatever else you do on this site when you like a story, kudos or whatever.

The blizzard may be over, but the snow is thicker. It lies drenched over unmoved cars and rooftops. Lorne Malvo watches a particular sloth of ice slide slowly, gradually down the timber of an old two story house. He watches it drop from its great height and hit the ground with a massive thump. The noise of which, Lorne finds to be, quite satisfying.

He's smoking a cigarette; the last out of the half-full packet he took with him as he exited his boss's office. _Ex-boss_. He had also acquired three sticks of gum and a lighter with a red flame etched into it. He lit it up as he watched the flame dance in the dense air, just feeling the heat through his thick glove.

A moist towelette lays used and abandoned by his right foot. It's stained in a faded wine, much like the remains of blood that linger in his fingernails, the blood of which belong to Stavros Milos. His body currently lies over his desk in his study; his letter opener struck through his hand and a gash the size of a bullet through his head. The stained glass murals behind him are shattered, and snow breezes in, covering every inch of the room on a light frost.

_It's poetic_ , Lorne thinks to himself, standing outside the Supermarket King's mansion. He's watching the snow continue its descent off the roof, and waiting for the next step in his aimless life to begin. The sound of trampling boots echoing in the distance tell him that it's right on time, and he doesn't even need to check his watch.

"Videns lupum" he says to the silence, eyes still focused on the flame.

Several crunches grow nearer behind him. They could be anything; a neighbour, a wild animal, but they aren't. It's the soft breakdown of ice beneath another man's feet. It's the rising smoke of inevitability as the fire races its way towards fate.

_It is my judge._

They are louder.

_It is my jury._

They are closer.

_It is my executioner._

They are here.

"Are you aware of the wolf pack mentality?" Lorne asks the wind. The tracks have stopped. The wind erupts a silky howl.

"Well what I mean is the management of the pack" he explains, pocketing the lighter and stamping out his last cigarette. "The alpha's, the beta's, the omega's; the position of every wolf in the pack."

The wind's howl is now low and groaning. The strange presence behind Lorne is listening. He is also preparing.

"I was a beta, when I first began" Lorne commenced. "I was second in command to a man with a belly bigger than a barrel of lard, and the stink of one too. He could seldom walk a few meters without sweating a flood, and yet he managed to control an entire empire.

"I remember one job he had me do; a man needing taking care of, just a simple tap and go. My cover was a struggling christian paying his way through college by working for a charity that doesn't even exist. The man though, being the devoted catholic he was, couldn't leave me out in the dead of winter without feeding me first. The soup was delicious, but not enough to keep him alive. His wife wasn't home, nor were his children. I didn't stick around long enough to see their faces, I never do...

"But a phone call later, and the boss was pleased, more than pleased. I swear I could hear his stomach rumbling with the jolly in his voice..." he laughed dryly. "He was a strange man, all wrapped up in his neat little office, all tucked in, all safe.

"Of course, it wasn't all safe. His office was perched next door to Yin Chow's chinese. "The best fried rice in the city" they argued, and they were quite right, it was tasty. They also had their gas mains running between the wall of their restaurant, and the fat pig's office." He scoffs. "Convenient. A simple axe to the plaster and a matchbox was all it took to light the bastard up.

"Ah, but now you see, I'm the omega, the lone wolf, the thrown-out remains of the pack that didn't want them. Sure, a couple of beta's were sent out to find me, to rip me apart with their bare hands. Their teeth.

"And lordy, did they try. I applauded them all, after I shot their heads off with an AK-47. Ever fire one yourself?" He paused, smiling down at his feet, straightening his collar. "You should give it a go, it is definitely one of life's misconstrued pleasures.

"Well I've been the omega ever since, but being the lone wolf isn't a terrible thing. It's a lot more fun; there's a lot less rules to follow, a lot less burdens to bare. Plus, I have seven dead alpha's on my resume. Pretty good, hey? Seven. It's such a repetitious number. Seven days in a week. Seven dwarves. Seven sins."

The breeze had picked up as he spoke, blistering his cheeks as it brushed passed. The footsteps had also returned, moving closer and closer until they stopped. He could just make out the shadow lingering over his, of the man standing behind me. He was tall, a giant compared to himself, with bulging biceps and the recurrent stench of stale-coffee breath. Lorne breathed it in, the smell of home, and breathed out, parting his lips with a pop.

"Wolves take care of their own" he said now, his voice lower but still heard over the powerful gale. "If one is sick or injured, the others will protect it, feed it, shelter it from weather and harm. It's believed that by caring for its injured packmate, it is helping it heal, making the beast stronger, faster.

"I wasn't injured, but I'm scarred. I'm treated like the omega so I became the omega. They didn't protect me, but I didn't need their protection. I protected myself. I raised myself out of dirt and snow and entrails of fallen comrades and I prevailed. I slaughtered, and I massacred, and I spilled more blood than my alpha's before me.

"But I did it all myself. I am a lone wolf, but I am dying an alpha." He sunk to his knees as he droned into silence. The knees were already numb against the soggy ice beneath them. He closed his eyes, and he smiled, and he felt the pain, but then he didn't. He was dying a warrior's death.

An alpha's deaf.

\---

He had watched the man for hours. He had watched him smoke three cigarettes in a row. He had observed him play with the ugliest fucking lighter he'd ever seen. He had also put up with his endless and draining monologue about dogs and his pathetic life. And yet he was killing him with dignity? What dignity came from death? What dignity could ever come of his death?

Mr Wrench promised him no dignity. He only promised pain, a slow agonizing descent into the cold snow. It would be slow, it would be dire, and it would not be a kindness.  
He pulled his knife out from within his coat and held it up to the light. He watched the blunt sunlight gleam of the sheer metal. He moved forward, holding it over the man's throat. He pushed it in deep, and drew it along, slowly, past the hyoid bone, slicing through the tissue and muscle with ease. He was glad he had removed his gloves while the man rattled on. Because feeling the warm blood rush over his fingers was enough to render him delirious. He's lost in the pleasure of the kill, his hands are wound firm around the man's throat, letting the gore rush over his skin.

When the last of the liquid was drained, he let go. The body hit the snow, mixing itself with the sludge and blood. He watched it for a moment, watched the man's last breath leave his body is harsh stutters of movement. Then he was still, and the gurgling from his sliced throat had come to a halt.

He pulled out a cloth from within his jacket, wiping the handle of the blade and striking it into the ground, just by the body. He then continued wiping his fingers of the excess fluids and placed the fabric back in his coat. With another satisfied grin towards the corpse, he turned and left.

He was a mile down the road when the sirens were heard, barely, just over the horizon. They were playing a familiar tune, a hum, a melody of solitude and satisfaction. He stuck his hands, still slightly sticky with warm blood, into his jacket pockets, whistling his own soulful tune.

The cop cars approached, the tires crunching over dead leafs and debris. They sailed passed him, wailing and screeching against the asphalt. They ignored the man as they travelled on, down to the two story house, the abandoned coop. The sounds dragged on, as the men kept on whistling.

A meters later, he stopped. Beside him now was a brief case, partially open, partially showing a soggy $100 bill. He lifted to the case upright, closing it with two quiet clicks and carrying it along. It could come in handy somewhere, he thought, as the thought of warm apple pie came to mind and the song was back on his lips.

* * *

* * *

 


End file.
